The cave had a mouth. Rhombus shaped. The rock appeared melted in places, rendering the angles curved and flesh like. It was entirely dark beyond the boundaries of it. Inside, they could see nothing. Inside? This was real, Pheel thought. He was really inside it. This place. This was a dungeon. Inside, a chest, containing prophecies, fake prophecies, perhaps fake fakes: actually real. He was in charge of shit. But he was really here. In terms of the story he was inside and technically - was this really still true in any meaningful sense? Writing. No, no, it, sincerely wasn't. But it was inside, and okay maybe it was, and they were... going.

Art stopped. Looked back at Pheel - both hesitating - Pheel was hesitating - this wasn't surprising; but why did he pause at the outset? What was so obviously inside that neither wished to approach? Demons. Demons aligned with the Queen of Waat, and that was enough.

But not just a way station, Pheel thought, a place between more important narrative matters. He could feel it. He could even feel a dawning awareness of something more.

“It's inside,” Art said. There was a dawning awareness around them. A chill in the air. The temperature had fallen dramatically and suddenly, and they hadn't - even -

The cave of prophecies and -

The consciousness in there, it enveloped them, they hadn't even physically entered - they hadn't even decided to go inside and -

Art looked around, alone, completely alone, separated from Pheel/anyone, anyone else - anyone at all. Alone. He looked around at where he was. Inside.

He was in a bedroom. Of some kind. There. Just in it. Iron Bed; straw mattress. The floor: wooden floorboards, but they weren't straight, exactly. Something was pressing on them, this was the impression anyway, from below. He couldn't interpret what his organs were saying about this place, the supernatural ones. Apart from: this was the quest. He was here, in this place – a lie - and that was part of the quest - about who he was etc., the quest: him, apparently and that was always the case, according to Pheel, in some sense, but – that didn't matter. Right now. Because the feeling, here, was one of incalculable sadness and dread.

Why here? This was a cave in which he'd fight demons for a box of prophecies but, apparently - was that even where he was? He sat on the bed. Not seriously inclined to open the only door; to check if it was even locked. It didn't look sturdy enough to prevent his escaping, but the sadness, of a person who lived here/used to live here/ was absent from here; or something of this nature - it ate him live; his soul, out from the inside.

He couldn't move. Sword and scabbard unbuckled in the corner, it was a room; Art couldn't move.

Was he in the dungeon. He was in the dungeon, he was in the dungeon, he was in the -. Sitting on a bed, he was in the dungeon. His organs told him that. But he couldn't move. He was fixed here, he thought. He had a premonition for the rest of his life.